


Smile for the Camera

by Ernmark (M_Moonshade)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Adopted by the Kanagawa AU, Juno is a mobster, M/M, Writing Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8243054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/Ernmark
Summary: When Juno saved Cecil, he was officially adopted into the Kanagawa household, and now there's never a moment when he's not on camera. But now there's a newcomer in his semi-scripted life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a writing prompt from Belanekra: 
> 
> "I remember someone saying something about a “Juno was adopted by the Kanagawas” AU, but IDK if anything ever came of it. But I’ve been wanting it ever since!"
> 
> So here's to you, Belanekra. I hope you enjoy.

It’s five minutes before dawn when I’m woken up by a sharp knock at the door.

“Mister Kanagawa,” says one of more than a dozen of Father’s technical assistants. “You’re due in makeup.”

I want to throw something at the door, but I couldn’t grip anything if I tried. I don’t get much sleep at the best of times, but last night was especially hellish. My broken hand has been throbbing so hard that I’m almost tempted to take the painkillers Min— _Mother,_ I remind myself—keeps pushing my way. Almost, but not quite.

The doctors are all on her payroll, I’ve heard her talking to one of her assistants about how an addiction arc would be perfect for ratings. I don’t know enough about the brands to estimate the right dosage on my own, so I go without. I’d rather deal with pain and sleepless nights now than after six months of rehab.

“Send them in,” I groan, and pull myself upright. The little bit of movement sends a stabbing pain through my forehead. Last night I tried self-medicating with gin, and all it did was give me a hangover. The door opens to let in an agonizingly bright light and a figure that I can’t identify while my eyes are squeezed shut. Their steps are light, and they set down a makeup case on the vanity with considerately little noise.

“Are you ready, Mister Kanagawa?” asks a pleasant voice, so quiet that I need to strain to hear.

I squint my eyes open. The door’s shut, and the only light in the room is dim and indirect. My one-person makeup crew is standing over my bed. He—the glint of red on his lapel indicate male pronouns—seems like an altogether pleasant person. Soft, cherubic face. Slender frame. Nice voice. His expression is scrunched up in a look of curious concern.

“Are you entirely alright, Mister Kanagawa?” he asks, still soft. “You don’t look well.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what you’re here for.” I drag myself out of bed and stagger a few feet before I slump into my vanity chair. “And it’s Juno.”

“Very well, Juno.” He opens his case and hesitates. “Before we begin, does your regular makeup artist have any particular instructions I should keep in mind?”

“You’re looking at him. I’d be doing all this myself, but…” I raise my broken hand. “I’m not exactly ambidextrous.”

“Maybe not, but you’re certainly talented,” the artist coos as he begins cleaning last night’s drinking binge off my face with a damp cloth. “Your makeup has always been remarkably applied.”

“You’re a viewer.” Of course he is. Who doesn’t watch the Family’s streams?

“Only casually, I’m afraid. Though I did catch yesterday’s excitement. That was quite gallant of you.”

At least he won’t be asking me how I broke my hand.

“Anything for the ratings,” I mutter.

“I’m serious.” The blade of his hand brushes a stray hair out of my face before he begins my foundation. “You were very brave. I’m certain if I was there, I would have been terrified.”

I don’t reply. I don’t like having other people all over me on my best days—it’s part of the reason why I’ve been doing my own makeup for so long. The brushes and sponges aren’t nearly enough of a barrier between his hands and my face, and the proximity makes me squirm.

Without my input, he continues. “But then, you’ve always been the brave sort, haven’t you? I did catch a few episodes of your first show, you know. Fighting the Triad, saving Cecil—why, it was absolutely breathtaking.”

I glare at the camera in the corner of the mirror. Fifty creds says that right now my stream is repeating the footage of that gunfight to refresh viewers’ memories. Then there’ll inevitably be some clips of my first show, _Little Brother_ , to remind everybody that I may not be the youngest member of the main family, but I’m definitely the newest.

Maybe Croesus— _Father_ —thought he was doing me a favor by adopting me into the family. Personally I think he was punishing me for not saving Cecil’s face and arm along with the rest of him.

“Can we talk about something else?” I ask.

“Very well.” He’s silent for a few moments while he contours my cheekbones, and then he’s talking again. “Your father made quite the discovery, Juno. It must be exhilarating to have such a unique specimen in your home.”

Ugh. That mask. I’d give a few toes to make people shut up about that damn mask. Only I would never say that out loud, because somebody would take that seriously.

“Maybe if you’re a fan of archeology,” I mutter.

“You’re not?” he asks innocently. “I must admit, I find the field fascinating.”

I’d tell him to shut up, but I like the sound of his voice too much. His face is inches from mine, close enough that I can catch a hint of his cologne over my own morning breath, and his whole demeanor is lit up with enthusiasm.

I can’t remember the last time I saw a man like him. Not gorgeous, not beautiful in the way of the streams, but so warm and inviting that I can’t help but want to please him.

And then it hits me.

Of course. How could I be such an idiot?

My recent fist fight might have given my ratings a spike, but it’s only a matter of time before viewership plunges again. I’ll need something else to keep them coming, something to draw their attention. And what better than an illicit romance with a member of the staff?

It has Min’s— _Mother’s_ —style written all over it.

I could tell this man to keep his mouth shut. I could slug him. I could fire him and practice applying makeup with my off hand.

Or I could play into her game. It wouldn’t be a complete sellout. The higher the ratings, the fewer excuses Cecil has to get creative with his own shows. And knowing Cecil, that might just wind up saving a few lives.

The whole train of thought rushes through my head while he’s working on my mouth—lip liner, color, sealant to keep it on.

I glance at the camera, judging the best angle for my approach.

“You’re really into this mask, huh?” I ask as soon as it’s safe to talk.

“Guilty as charged.”

I lean in conspiratorially, my face a fraction of an inch from his. That cologne smells amazing. I manage to avoid feeling disgusted with myself long enough to wonder what his mouth will taste like, and I flash my best Kanagawa smile.

“How would you like to see it up close?”  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gavrielsaporta asked:  
> fic prompt: jupeter, the fall out boy lyric "but i still know the way to make your makeup run"
> 
> And I couldn't see a makeup reference without thinking of Peter pretending to be Juno's makeup artist.
> 
> I'd like to do more with this fic eventually.

All the world’s a stage– or at least, it is if you live inside the Kanagawa mansion. Every choice has to be measured for dramatic effect. If the audience likes what it sees, you’ll be asked for an encore, so never do anything you’re not willing to repeat. 

Yesterday’s fistfight, for example: you can bet that’ll be happening again soon. _Mother_ will make sure that the next few dozen parties I go to will also be attended by the scummiest shit bags she can scrape off the streets, just to provoke me into another fight. It’s only a matter of time before they’re armed– Cecil will make sure of _that_. I might get lucky for a while, but eventually that luck’ll run out. I’m sure Cecil’s counting on it– a dramatic death scene will be great for ratings.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. I can still leverage a different kind of drama, and that means leveraging the excitable new makeup artist. 

I feel like I should apologize for what I’m about to do to him, but I don’t. Instead I lead him through the maze of hollow walls and trap doors that make up the crew corridors, cutting across main rooms just quickly enough to be glimpsed by a camera before we disappear again. I could take him on a more direct route, but that would defeat the purpose: every instant of screen time builds suspense and gives the viewers another chance to tune in. 

Finally we’re at the service door into the new art gallery. There’s a hidden camera here, installed just in case any of the crew get any funny ideas. It shifts slightly to get a better angle on us.

“Are you ready?” I ask the artist. 

He grins, sharp teeth flashing behind an exhilarated smile. He really does have a nice smile.

I hope he’s still smiling when all this is over with.

I swipe my wrist over an identification pad, and it flashes green clicking as the door unlocks. I twist the doorknob and hold it open for him. “After you.”

He only gets a few steps through the door before he gasps. “Incredible!” 

He almost twirls as he takes his next steps, looking oddly like he’s dancing as he tries to take it all in. 

“Can you imagine?” he thrills. “Hundreds of death masks, vaults, tomb stones, sarcophagi, all staring you down. It’s breathtaking!”

“They sure aren’t breathing anymore,” I point out, but I can’t help a little smile. Most days I find this place creepy. Father only ever seems to come here to gloat, like having all these trophies are his personal reminder that he’s cheated death and won. The rest of the household only comes in here to bother him with business; there’s no telling if they even acknowledge the trophies as anything more than morbid art. 

I’ve never seen anyone enjoy the gallery like _this_ before. He’s staring up at all these old pieces like he’s won some kind of grand game.

It makes my job all that much easier. 

He darts from piece to piece, babbling about where they came from, the kinds of people they belonged to, what the rituals meant. I chime in what information I’ve been able to pick up by accident, usually when each of the pieces was first acquired. It’s not a lot, but the bits and pieces are obscure enough that I sound more knowledgeable than I really am. And then I slide an arm around his waist and tug him to the glass cube at the center of the gallery.

“And there it is,” I say. “The Death Mask of Grimpotheuthis.”

It’s impressive, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s ugly as sin. A three-headed, multi-orificed monstrosity that looks like it would be a better fit on a sea urchin than on anything remotely human. But when the artist looks at it, his breath catches.

“Oh, Juno,” he murmurs. “It’s magnificent. Look at this– a polymer entirely unlike anything humans have ever created. See the sheen? Metallic, yet almost opalescent! Look at the asymmetry of those features– the preference for threes and fives–” 

There’s something hypnotic about watching him carrying on. I find myself caring about the damn hunk of polymer in ways that I never did when it was headlining on all the news feeds, or when Father was ranting about his need to own it. This man gushes about the mask’s grace, its beauty, its artistry, and he says it with so much sincerity that I actually start to believe him.

I lean in close and kiss him. 

He pulls back, startled. “Mister Kanagawa!” 

“Juno,” I correct, but I relax my grip. If he wants to run, he can. 

But he doesn’t take the opportunity. He glances at me, then the mask, and back to me.

“Juno,” he repeats softly, just before he leans in for another kiss. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten a lot of requests to continue this one, so here's a bit more

This can’t be happening.

It’s impossible. It’s a nightmare.

But there it is, stretched across a billboard a hundred feet high, so vast that I can see every line and pore. 

My face.

I’m rooted in place, my mind reeling, when I’m forced back to this heinous reality by a voice.

“Hey! Ain’t you that guy from the streams?”

I swallow, too stunned to think clearly, but I try for nonchalance. “Who?”

“Oh my gawd, it is!” cries another person. A fan, judging by the whiff of Mad Genius brand perfume coming off him. 

“Holy shit, it’s the guy!” cries another one, and suddenly there’s a crowd. I want to run, but even I can’t disappear with so many eyes on me.

“What’s it like to kiss Juno?” 

“Is he as dreamy in real life?”

“Are you gonna be a regular on the show now?”

“Can I get your autograph?” 

I don’t know how to respond. Ordinarily I have days to come up with a persona– hours, at least. With no warning, I have a thousand options open to me and no way to predict the consequences. Would aloof hostility drive these people away, or would it make me a target of jealousy? Would bland charm make me forgettable, or would that render me endearing? 

Too many questions are coming at me all at once, and I can’t stop long enough to think of a proper voice, a personality, anything at all. 

Internally flailing, I take my existing panic and cast it as a mask. “I– I’m sorry. I have to– I have to go.” 

I let the horror show on my face as I push my way through the crowd, and I all but leap into oncoming traffic to hail a cab.

A dozen comms capture video of my escape. 

I tell the driver to take me to a restaurant and duck out the back before I’m spotted. I dart between alleys and across rooftops for the better part of an hour before I lose the feeling of being followed– but I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

How can I, when my own face is still staring down at me from the distance?

I hide in the shelter of a dark corner and try to calm my breathing. 

I was so careful to keep my face out of sight. I memorized the blueprints of the estate. Every secret passageway, every camera.

But Croesus Kanagawa is a jealous man with a shiny new toy. Of course he would have installed secret cameras around his precious mask, and I walked right into his trap.

_His trap._

I look up at the distant billboard. 

The composition of the shot is perfect. The angle is clear and flattering, not just on me, but on Juno’s face as he leans in for the kiss. It couldn’t look better if it was posed.

Because it was.

Fury hits me like a spike in my chest.

For twenty years all I’ve had has been my anonymity, and he ripped it away from me with a kiss. 

* * *

I don’t run.

If I flee now, I’ll become a mystery. Devoted viewers will start actively searching for me everywhere. I’ll be marked for life, no matter where I go.

If I stay, if I play out this role that was forced on me, then I still have a chance– to rise and fall and be forgotten as just another extra with five minutes of fame. I might even be able to steal the mask if I play my cards right. After all, for all Miasma knows, this was all a part of my plan.

Besides, I have a few things to say to Mister Kanagawa.


	4. Chapter 4

I arrive for my shift as scheduled and wait with benign patience until I’m summoned. My life may have been shaken to its foundations, but as far as anyone else is concerned, nothing is out of the ordinary.

I prefer it stays that way.

“Mister Kanagawa,” I say, too sharply to be a proper greeting.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his injured hand in his lap.

“Morning.” He looks like he hasn’t slept. It might be endearing if I was in any mood to sympathize. “You’re still here.”

“I wouldn’t want you to cut off the new ad campaign prematurely. Not after you plastered my face on a billboard.”

At least he has the decency to grimace. “Jesus, they put up a billboard?”

“You weren’t the only one surprised,” I hiss. “I never agreed to be a part of this show, Mister Kanagawa. Let alone part of your advertisements.”

“Yeah, you did.” He massages his temples with his good hand. “Likeness and footage rights default to the family as long as you’re on the premises. Page four-twenty-five of your contract. Subsection… hell if I know. Ask Cassie if you’re curious. She’s got this shit memorized.”

I have a sudden burning desire to grind his broken hand under my heel. “I have a right to my privacy.”

“Are you kidding? In this house?” He lets out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Did the crew warn you about the bathrooms, at least? The cameras around here pick up everything.”

Not everything. Not until his intervention. “And that footage would have ended up on the cutting room floor if you hadn’t dragged me into the spotlight. You used me.”

He sighs. “The door’s right there. If you’re not okay with this, you need to get out while you still can.“

My eyes narrow. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m not the one you need to be worried about. If they put up a billboard, then that means they’re invested in you. Those kinds of ads don’t come cheap, and you can bet your ass the Family’s going to make sure they get their money’s worth. If they can’t squeeze ratings out of a romance arc, then they’ll find something else. You won’t like what they come up with.” He looks impossibly tired. Give him a few more words, and he might just collapse under the weight of his own thoughts.

I’m still angry, but I’ll save that for later. “If your family is so concerned about losing their investment, then I suspect running won’t save me.”

“Depends on how far you run.”

“Do you really think I’m going to pick up and leave just like that?”

“It’s the smart thing to do,” he says. “The Family isn’t liable for your death. That’s page five-forty-one.”

The robotic ready way he produces these numbers leaves me wondering how often he’s had to cite them before.

I let out a long breath. “Fine. If they’re after, I suppose I can make something work. A torrid affair, then?” That should work well enough for my purposes: a whirlwind romance, an abrupt breakup, and then the drama of a missing mask to help the viewers forget all about me. 

Juno shrugs halfheartedly, as if he doesn’t have the energy for even that. “At least you know what you’re getting into this time.”

I stare down at him. If I’m going to do this, then this won’t do. He looks terrible. “I still have a job to do. Come here.” 

He climbs off the bed, taking care not to push off with his injured hand, and drags himself into the seat by the vanity.

He doesn’t say a word as I apply concealer and foundation. There’s something absolutely hound-like about those big sad eyes. Despite my anger, I’m half-tempted to pet his head and tell him he’s a good boy. 

“Is this how all your relationships start?” I ask when I finish his lips. 

“Most people don’t exactly need convincing,” he says. “My last few relationships were mugging for the camera every chance they got.”

 _How tacky_. “I’d prefer to avoid more cameras, if at all possible.”

He huffs a halfhearted laugh. “Gonna be a bit hard selling a big romance without it.”

“Not at all.” I tip his chin toward me. I’ve hidden the worst signs of exhaustion, but there’s no masking those big sad eyes. Despite my lingering anger, it’s easy to kiss him. 

He hesitates, frozen for a moment in confusion, and then he’s kissing me back with barely restrained need. When I pull away, the color on his lips is smeared just enough to be noticeable. Judging by the way his eyes dart to my mouth, some of the stain has rubbed off on me, too.

I pat his head affectionately. “I prefer a bit of  _subtlety_.” 


End file.
